March 18, 2005

• The Clown Speaks.
  

  
  

  This Text is being wrote as I think, my rapid rabied mind dances like this all of the time, as if stoned (when not). Hunter Thompson or Ginsberg or the dadas had nothing on me when in I’m free fall
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  “Anyway” was wrote like this as were some of my poems as re some of my teeth. Wrote without really thinking. I can write good like this, but most of the times you only see bad, this may be bad, if so will I revise it as I do most of my poems (exceptions though are many for it’s said poets do not write poems, the poems write themselves).
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  It does here. A bit of a cheat, got Buddy Holly on the turntable, er, cd player. That’ll be the Day.” I love “Heatbeat”, they used it for a British country policeman series. The books were better, the books by Nicholas Rhea were better. It took place in the sixties between the end of Jesus and the moment the Beatles went mad.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  That’s upset two lots of readers! Yup, when I am in this zany stroking mood, re: part of my brain, it’s nothing to do with stroking Big sandra’s tits or any other kind of stroke. Once I patted a piller-box and let it sniff my hand, I thought it was a breed of dog. It seems people born with different brains have different reactions to mind-strokes my limbs are not too bad now, it’s my neck and above that suffers, my mind should be dead by now, it makes me a sad little funny honey, (“Baby-Baby”) it has even brought me back some of the empathy, what was always just what I learnt, is now natural to me.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Why do you miss a beat when my baby kisses me?
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  I write as good, some may say better than  have ever. Now I no longer create for a living, I have only poetry (and prose like this) left to create and I have few friends so a lot of time. Mind, most of my poems are wrote half-way in the night or before I go to work in the morning, or in these moods.
  

  
  

  I can’t write natural.  I’ve done everything and I’m sick of trying.
  

  
  

  (Sorry, that was Buddy, (not bud, can’t get any anymore!)
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  It’s raining in my heart. See, I write as some conversations go, which helps me to write under various personae as I write it against “The Times” code for correct English. (An editors whim!) persona to everyone else.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Bo Diddley with a love for will not fade away. Concentrate. is that right? My spelling was never my strong point. “If it get’s passed the piss-artist” (the often drunk sub-editor proof-reader) “then it’ll get into the paper. And “check your facts, if someone famous died in 1690, then make sure they did not die in (*******) 1692! No matter how obscure the silly old sod is, some schmuk will know when he died!”
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  I slipped up more than once. It was on a gravestone I read the year that a long-dead famous Chesterfield builder died. (can’t remember the dates and as checking is even easier now thanks to google…DIDN’T HAVE GOOGLE IN MY DAY! MOAN MOAN! then I’ll say 1860, just an unchecked fact as I can’t be bothered to google cos I’ve forgot the person’s name!)
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  “Well, all right!” Anyway, say the gravestone said 1860, well maybe, but everyone knew he died in 1862 except for myself and the drunk proof reader jumped-up-sub-editor, a funny balding little man who lived in terror of his wife. Female reporters used to answer the office phone when he was not there and say “stop it …..!” (the dots are for the sub-editor’s name, remember it, but the poor sod might be dead by now). Inside half a hour his wife would storm unannounced into the paper and DEMAND to see her filthy cheating husband.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  There was then a big inquiry, we ALL knew who answered the phone, the editor too, but no one wanted to tell poor little baldy who did it. Thankfully, revenge was rare. He was too proud of his job to turn our articles into surreal nonsense in which we get to call the Chief Constable of Derbyshire that something that King Cnut didn’t have on his body.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  He could have screwed us all, poor devil, only he stood between our cock & bull stories (Some wrote drunk in “The Cock & Bull” public house, not the famous London one though!) and the great sneering public, most of which we could hear in the street saying “Paper’s is a load of bumfluff this week, don’t ken why we gone buy’i duck!” “Aye, royt ruddy daft of us, tha’s bloody Cuthbert again, I ken he’s behint us lass!!! HE SHOULD HEAR, can’t he get his ruddy facts royt?!”
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  But that was then.
  

  
  

  And this is now.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  And this is it.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  For now.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  —
  

  
  

  The Clowne From Clown
  

  
  

   

  
  

  WILL ANSWER COMMENTS HERE WEEKEND COS New POEMS ARE NOW ON THE LordPineapple  SITE!

  
  

   

  
  

  Note: Many of my personae fails, I don’t have enough in them. The latest being “Charlie The Copper”. In the next Pineapple blog I shall put poems of three of the names that never quite made it into double figures in the number of poems.

  • 6:50 pm
  • 24 Comments